All We Can Do Is Keep Breathing
by narcissmy
Summary: Mimi's letter to Roger, detailing the incidents that led to her 'death'. Could be turned into a series - depending on reviews.


**Name:** All We Can Do Is Keep Breathing

**Summary:** Mimi's letter to Roger, her explanation of the events leading up to her 'death'.

**Rating:** Teenage (Implied drug use)

**Disclaimer:** Oh, to own the characters. But no, sadly, all belonging to Mr Jonathan Larson. Song used throughout the fic is Keep Breathing – Ingrid Michaelson. What a beautiful piece of music.

Roger,

_The storm is coming, but I, don't mind._

I didn't deliberately set out to stop taking my meds. When we all went our separate ways, I still attended to the clinic. But that bored receptionist got pissy with me when I told her I was moving around a lot lately, so my address would get changed quite frequently. She was barely out of school, chewing gum like she had a point to prove, and I was high that day. Needless to say, she was uncooperative and downed right rude, I was easily provoked. We argued. She told me that I was worthless, and that I didn't deserve to be alive. She told me it was my own fault I was dying. Of course, she knows nothing. She doesn't know anything about what happened to me, or how I came to be HIV positive. She knows absolutely nothing.

_People are dying. But I close my blinds._

I don't understand how someone can be so happy in their ignorance and their arrogance. They're deliberate notion of continuously bringing other people down. I was dying. She knew that. I'm not looking at the sympathy vote, I never do. But she had my records in front of her – including that rather explicit page from my psychiatrist that they gave me. The one that they give everyone, who sits in that plastic leather chair and tries to talk to you about accepting death when she has no idea how you feel. How could she. She's alive. Her body isn't turning against her. She has two pretty kids, two prettier cars and a house for vacation in the countryside. Her husband comes to the club sometimes. Maybe I'll throw that in her face at our next session. Anyway, this isn't about her. Why couldn't that receptionist have been incredibly nosy like the rest of her profession (I'm allowed to use a blanket statement, don't look at me like that. She was quick enough to assume that I was HIV positive because of my addiction,) and looked through my files just this once? Then I wouldn't have had to get all choked up and storm out of there. I didn't know where else to go and for a little while, without my meds, I was fine. I convinced myself I was getting better, you know. It was almost humiliating when I coughed so hard that up came blood. Scarlet against my palm. The bloody reminder that I couldn't just forget this. It washed off of course, just like I can forget I have Aids for a couple of days, when I'm feeling good. Then the next day I found some splatters on my t-shirt, which I had thought was clean. A dirty reminder. I spent all my money on smack and wiped out for a couple of days.

_I want to change the world, instead, I sleep._

When I woke up I was on my own again. I wanted to speak to you – only you weren't there, were you Roger? You were driving out of town. You were running away from me. From what I'd done to you.

_I want to believe in more than you and me._

I do that to people. Screw them over. I'm sorry. I do it to myself, too, of course. Seen as I only ever screw over the people I love. Sorry again. That slipped out. You probably don't want a letter about what I feel about you. In fact, you probably don't want a letter from me at all. We're together again, but we never spoke about anything, everything is just unresolved, simmering between us like some vat of poison. But I'm not scared anymore Roger. I can't afford to be scared. I could die tomorrow, I could die in three years time. And I'd die a liar. I'd die with you not knowing how I really felt about you. How much I love you. How much I loved being with you. Not just you, all of us. I've been on my own since I was sixteen. It was nice to have friends. It was nice to be someone, rather than a piece of ass, or a patient number. I wasn't just the dying girl anymore. I was the dying girl who was living her life. Lying in the snow, waiting for someone, anyone, to care about me enough to notice I was missing showed me that yes, I have Aids and yes, at that time, I was exceedingly good at alienating people, but I was getting better at living with myself. It was always myself I had the problem with. People don't understand that. They think I lash out or have issues with other people, but I don't. I'm terrified of them finding out that I'm a fraud. I'm ashamed of how dramatic it all was, how I had to be carried half dead up to your apartment. I am ashamed. But that's behind me now. That's another thing I'm learning to do: put things behind me.

_But all that I know is I'm breathing. All I can do is keep breathing._

I was talking to the guys at the Life Support meetings, and he said that the only way to move forward is to let go of what happened in the past. I don't believe in letting go, because some of my life I have actually enjoyed. But I do believe in coming to terms with what happened in the past. In order to do this, I need other people to know what happened to me. I don't like people jumping to conclusions, and I've never talked to you about my life, really. We've talked about April, briefly. We talked about your band endlessly, especially when you were drunk and willing to do impressions. You even told me about that time Maureen made a pass at you, right before Maureen made a pass at me. But you never understood me. So I'm here to lay me bare. And if you still want me after it all, then I'm in it with you. I'll carry your baggage. I'd be happy to die for a taste of what Angel had; that's what I said, right? And that's what I meant. I'll die happy if you can just let me love you again.

_All we can do is keep breathing, now._

I'm sorry,

Mimi.


End file.
